The Cartel 7--Illuminati--Roundtable of Bosses

by Ashley

  He didn’t understand why he felt so afraid. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling down his face if he tried. One minute he had been playing basketball and buying ice cream with his cousin, Monroe, and the next he was taken. He wondered if Monroe Jr. was still alive. They had separated them. Three days had passed since they had been kidnapped and he had been thrown into a basement. He hadn’t eaten and his stomach churned as hunger pangs tortured him. The unsurmountable terror that seized him made him wish that he would die. A quick demise would be better than the fear of the unknown.

  The locks on the steel door clicked and he looked up hopefully. He held his breath as a man walked in. He was cloaked in the finest clothes that C.J. had ever seen. His eyes were dark, menacing, vengeful, and C.J. braced himself, half-expecting to be shot down by the armed men that entered the room behind their leader.

  “My name is Baraka. I am the man who is going to decide if you live or if you die.”

  C.J. didn’t speak. He couldn’t find his voice to respond. The lump in his throat blocked the pleas that were running through his mind from ever getting out. His body shook involuntarily.

  “Your family took my daughter from me. Your mother buried her in the dirt. She died slowly in the middle of the desert, wondering why I wasn’t coming to save her. An eye for an eye would mean that I do the same to you,” Baraka said.

  C.J.’s bottom lip trembled. He had never seen the side of Miamor that Baraka spoke of.

  “Stand him up,” Baraka ordered. His men moved on command and pulled C.J. to his feet. His legs were so weak that his knees buckled. He hadn’t had water or food in days. He couldn’t hold up his own body weight. “You stand or you die,” Baraka said.

  C.J.’s head hung low as he grit his teeth and pressed his hands against the dirty concrete floor. He pushed himself up. It took all he had to get to his feet. His skinny knees knocked and he looked up into Baraka’s menacing eyes. Behind the glaring stare was a hint of remorse.

  “I am sorry for what I am about to do and for what you are about to see. It should not be the burden of the child to pay for the actions of the father, but it must be.”

  C.J.’s eyes welled with tears as he was pushed out of the room. He was escorted down a long hall, passing steel doors that were shackled with heavy locks. His young imagination ran rampant as he wondered what or who was behind them. He wondered if Lil’ Money and Aunt Leena were behind any of them. His heart ached for them. He desperately needed to see the face of someone he knew. The amount of terror he was experiencing was too much. He was afraid to even breathe so he found himself holding his breath, only remembering that he needed air when his chest began to plead with him to inhale.

  He begged God. He had prayed before with his mother and even though it felt silly to speak to someone he couldn’t even see, he did it more than he ever had before in this dangerous circumstance. Suddenly, the God that his mother made him put his hands together and give thanks to felt like his only hope.

  Baraka stopped at the end of the hall and opened the last door. C.J. paused, but was pushed so forcefully that he fell, skinning his knees. He scrambled to his feet and was nudged forward. “Aunt Leena!” he cried. She was hanging from the low ceiling rafters, her neck bent in an awkward position and her eyes swollen shut. Her entire body was black and blue. She was bound by her wrists and had been stripped naked as she swung slowly back and forth. He couldn’t contain the tears. He lunged for her, but was held back by one of the burly men. “Auntie Leena!”

  “Bring the other boy,” Baraka ordered. C.J.’s heart stopped as he turned and looked for Lil’ Money. Mo walked into the room, his chest poked out and his lips fixed in a grimace and C.J. instantly recognized the fearlessness that he had tried his hardest to muster. Mo had it. He was a Diamond and C.J. looked up to his cousin in that moment.

  “Ma?” he whispered as he finally noticed Leena. “Ma!” he screamed as he violently fought to shake out of the grasp of his captors to reach Leena. Mo’s voice seemed to stir Leena and she groaned.

  “Please…” Her words were barely audible. She was so weak, so defeated, and the pain she felt from the beating she had endured over the past three days was immeasurable. The fight they had tortured out of her had been reignited with just the sound of her son’s voice. “They’re just kids,” she whispered. “Please…”

  “The children are the pawns on the board,” Baraka stated. “Your very own king and queen sacrificed them. One life. Miamor’s could have spared yours and theirs as well.”

  “This has nothing to do with them!” Leena’s pleas were full of pain, full of anger. “You’re an honorable man. I’m sorry about Yasmine. I’m sorry it has come to this, but Yasmine was a grown woman. She made choices. She slept with a married man! What choices have these kids made to end up here? None! This is war! This is no place for children. Please,” Leena sobbed heavily. “Oh God!” Her desperation was palpable and hopelessness thickened the air. “I don’t care what you do to me. I made my choices too, but they are babies.” Leena’s head drooped once more, her chin resting on her chest. She had used what strength she had left to declare her piece and silence was the reply. It was eerily quiet as C.J. looked at Baraka, his heart pounding, his mouth hanging agape as he as well as everyone else waited for Baraka to speak.

  C.J. and Mo looked at each other as they were restrained. Baraka stood in front of them, measuring the value of their lives in his mind. C.J. felt invisible as if Baraka could see through him. It didn’t matter how well he maintained his emotions or how brave of a front C.J. could muster, Baraka could see his fear.

  “They will watch every second until the life leaves your body. Then they will pledge their allegiance to me. They are mine now. A small price for the Cartel to pay for what they have taken from me,” Baraka stated.

  “I’m a Diamond! I don’t belong to you!” Mo shouted.

  Baraka chuckled. “You are rambunctious. That Diamond bloodline is strong, but even Diamonds can be destroyed. You have spirit, I will give you that.” He turned toward his men. “Break it. If they look away or close their eyes, kill them.”

  The men retrieved heavy metal chains that hung from the walls. For the first time C.J. noticed the torture tools. The chains were rusted and old. Axes and knives accompanied them and he looked at Leena, then at Monroe, in distress. His young mind couldn’t quite fathom what he was about to witness.

  The first blow was yielded with such force that it split the flesh on Leena’s back. She yelped in excruciation.

  “Agh!”

  “I’m going to kill you! Don’t touch my mama! Ma!” Mo yelled as he fought to get to her.

  C.J. was frozen where he stood. His eyes were wide as Baraka’s threats played over and over in his head. “If they look away, kill them.” So, he didn’t. C.J. forced himself to watch as the men took the skin off his aunt’s bones, blow by blow. His stomach clenched, the empty pit now filling with hopelessness as he watched Baraka’s hired hand strike once more. The sound of the chain dragging mercilessly across the ground made the hair stand up on the back of C.J.’s neck. It was like a metal snake, hissing before it prepared to strike.

  Leena’s screams could peel paint off a wall. She was a wounded animal and the blood that dripped from her body covered the floor around her. The beating didn’t stop until there was nothing left of her. She was unrecognizable. Like a piece of butchered meat, she hung there, swinging left to right, bone and flesh.

  * * *

  C.J. jolted out of bed, the images branded in his mind so fresh that he looked around in horror, half-expecting to be confined to Baraka’s captivity. He had the same nightmare every night. He had never spoken of the things he had seen while he was with Baraka. To witness his aunt being murdered, so brutally, at such a young age, was traumatizing. He lived in fear every day for the three years he was taken. Baraka never laid one hand on C.J. In fact, he treated them well, but like a slave master handled his favorite slave, it was still bondage all the same. The
mental chains that Baraka had placed on both C.J. and Mo were strong enough to keep them from disobeying. The promise of death to the rest of their loved ones kept C.J. and Mo in line for years. Not once did they try to run; not once did they fight. After witnessing Leena beaten to death, they simply complied, breaking off all allegiance to their family to survive. No one, but Mo, knew what they had seen. They never told anyone. Not Miamor, not Carter, not Monroe. It was a secret they shared. Ashamed of the fact that they had switched sides without putting up a fight, they thought their family would abandon them if they knew the truth.

  So, when they returned, they lived a life of pretend. C.J. pretended to be happy, he pretended to be normal and unafraid, but he lived in terror every second of every day. He tried to blend back into his family, but not only had they changed, so had he. He felt disconnected from his parents and he couldn’t tell them why. He loved them but at the same time he felt like he didn’t belong. Mo was the only person he felt completely comfortable around. He had been happy to be reunited with his blood but still he didn’t seem to fit the way he used to.

  The silence of the house made him hold his breath in anticipation as he listened carefully, trying to determine if Ms. Bernice was still awake. It felt odd being in her home, sleeping in this bed. It was all pretend. They weren’t family and C.J. was conditioned to question the motives of anyone unrelated to him. He was uncomfortable here and his weary soul unsettled. He was being traded off from person to person and each time he woke up in a new place he lost a piece of his security. Losing Mo made it all seem so final. He had no family. There was no one he could rely on. Now he was out in the world alone, filled with insecurities. The solitude of his new existence made him feel small and unimportant. Somehow, he was falling through the cracks of society without anyone taking notice.

  He opened the bedroom door and peeked down the hallway cautiously before daring to step out. He didn’t want to face Ms. Bernice. There was expectation in her stare. Every time he looked in her eyes he felt pressured to perform for her. He was like the puppy she had rescued from the pound. The growl in his stomach urged him toward the kitchen and he opened the refrigerator, being careful not to make any noise. The light illuminated the dark room and he reached inside, pulling out sandwich meat and bread. Even though Bernice had told him to make himself at home, C.J. didn’t want to get too comfortable. What does she want from me? he thought. She’s not my family. She don’t know me. Why would she bring me here if she didn’t want something?

  C.J. couldn’t make sense out of this situation. Strangers weren’t this kind. He hurriedly tossed together the sandwich and stuffed the belongings back inside the icebox. He felt like he was stealing and would be caught at any moment.

  When the light clicked on, it flooded into the kitchen all at once, leaving him no time to retreat with the disappearing darkness.

  “C.J., it’s three o’clock in the morning,” Ms. Bernice said. Her eyes went from the sandwich on the table to the guilty look on his face. “You don’t have to sneak around, C.J. You can eat what you like, as much as you like.”

  C.J. was like a deer caught in headlights. Vulnerable, exposed, the grumbling in his stomach reminding him he needed a good meal, but too prideful to admit the words aloud. She was a stranger, in more than just the sense that they weren’t very well acquainted. She was strange. Who welcomed a kid they didn’t know into their home, the kid of a kingpin, a kid from a history of violence and lawlessness? Her willingness to bring him home made her suspect to C.J. and his instincts told him not to trust her. That funny feeling that made him feel like he had to throw up was constant around her and it was something about the look in her eyes that told him there were hidden motives behind her stare.

  “Have a seat,” Bernice said as she walked over to him and removed the bread from his hands. She pointed to the small dinette table, motioning for C.J. to sit as she pulled food from the refrigerator. C.J. noticed how she removed bacon, eggs, butter, and pancake mix without even looking inside the fridge. Her eyes never left C.J. She examined him as she moved around the room from memory and with expertise. Her disarming stare caused him to lower his gaze as he fidgeted uncomfortably.

  How does she know where everything is? he thought.

  “I’ve done some research on your family, C.J. I know you come from a very different way of life. It will take some getting used to living here. I’m not rich but it’s safe. You will have a warm bed, a roof over your head, and food in your stomach,” Bernice said.

  She spoke the way mothers were supposed to speak. She moved around a kitchen the way a woman should, with love. His mother flashed through his mind. Miamor never cooked. She never knew where anything was, often cursing in anger when she couldn’t find the eggs or the sugar. He was used to personal chefs and expensive takeout, but for some reason the idea of someone preparing a meal especially for him made his bottom lip quiver. Children of the Cartel grew up differently, wanting for nothing but at the same time wanting for everything. Anything money could buy was fair game; it was the things that a dollar couldn’t attain that was lacking. Security, compassion, the image of a woman taking care of a family, taking care of a husband, doing homework with her children … C.J. didn’t have the mother who baked cookies or the father who coached his peewee team. His family were royals and they held court in the street. His mother and father, the king and queen. No one was whipping up pancakes in the middle of the night.

  His parents, his aunts, his uncles, and, from the stories he had heard, even his grandfather controlled the streets of Miami. The entire city was their playground; every illegal dollar made, the Cartel got a piece of it. There simply wasn’t time for the little things. Cooking breakfast was easily delegated to personal chefs, nannies, and housekeepers. It wasn’t until this very moment that he wondered, Why do the little things feel like the big things?

  “There are some things you will have to do around here,” Ms. Bernice said. “To earn your keep, but overall you will still appreciate your time here much more than if you were to be placed in the system.”

  She placed a plate of food in front of him that smelled so sweet, his mouth watered instantly. He found it odd when she sat next to him. He avoided looking at her, focusing on covering the sweetness with butter and syrup. He tore into the plate, eating so fast that he forgot to chew before swallowing.

  “Let’s fill you up,” Bernice said. He froze and let the fork linger midway in the air when he felt her hand on his thigh. It wasn’t the fact that she had placed it there. Many people had pat his thigh in encouragement before. A teacher or an elder, but the way she let it linger and the way she gave it a squeeze as her eyes hooded with ill intent made him fill with instant shame. These were the types of bad touches that he had learned about when he was younger. He pushed back from the table.

  “Are you done?” she asked. “You haven’t finished eating.”

  “I’m full,” he lied, scuttling away, wishing he had never ventured out of the room in the first place. His nostrils flared in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. This woman was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The way his body responded to her confused him and he just wanted to disappear inside the temporary solace of the room because it had a lock and locks were supposed to keep out the bad.

  * * *

  Bernice couldn’t look at herself in the mirror. It always happened this way. She would take in some child, mostly boys, but she wasn’t impartial to girls, and she would tell herself that she was saving them. Her logic convinced her that without her generosity these kids would be lost in a system where no one cared and few made it out. She always started with such good intentions, but it never failed, even when she fought with herself internally her urges always won out in the end. Guilt plagued her when she heard C.J. turn the lock on the bedroom door. She wanted to go to him, to soothe his worry, and ease his suspicions, but it wouldn’t stop the process she had already put into motion. I acted too fast. He wasn’t ready. I have to make him more comfortab
le so that it feels good and he won’t go telling. The last one that tried to tell …

  Her thoughts drifted because she didn’t want to think about that time. That time when things had gotten out of control. She had stopped for a long while after that. She had been too afraid of getting caught, but when she saw C.J. walk into her office it sparked a desperate flame inside her. Her job gave her access to fulfill her sick desires. With a clean record she was easily hirable, but she had a long history of inappropriate behaviors with minors. Nobody gave a fuck when I was the minor. There was no rescue when I was on the receiving end. I had to take it and then I had to like it and then I really liked it. He’ll eventually like it. Her twisted thoughts were attempts at justification for what was to come. Her eagerness had caused her to move too quickly. She knew that the most important step to all of this was the seduction. She had to woo him, the way she had done all the others. That way he wouldn’t tell. That way he wouldn’t want to tell. In due time, she thought. C.J. was in the hands of the worst type of monster. She was the kind that came in the form of help only to inflict more harm.

  Knock, knock!

  The light rap of knuckles against the wooden door made C.J. sit straight up in bed. “C.J., are you awake?”

  Her voice was soft and rang out in a sweet melody but still C.J. frowned. It was almost too sweet like candy that made your stomach hurt and C.J. recognized the force behind the words. He wondered if he might be overreacting. Had the awkwardness he felt last night when she touched him been all in his head? Did she mean it like that? he wondered. Perhaps being in a strange home with an unfamiliar woman had him paranoid and on guard. C.J. wasn’t sure, but if he had ever learned anything from his mother, he had learned this.